


Shared Clothing

by Tolo_loe



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alcohol, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Bad Writing, Canon Rewrite, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Escapism, Fluff and Angst, How Do I Tag, Hunters & Hunting, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Mild Gore, Mutual Pining, POV Multiple, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Omniscient, Pining, Sort Of, Tags May Change, Time Skips, What Was I Thinking?, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:54:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27873361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tolo_loe/pseuds/Tolo_loe
Summary: man i dont know i made an OC with kinky hair and im just here for fun please excuse this mess
Relationships: John Watson/Original Male Character(s), Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes & Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hmm

I made an OC to flush out possible internalized homophobia in John Watson because why the fuck not.  
•Sherlock is literally asexual and never enjoys sex and you cannot change my mind. These BBC writers (specifically for Sherlock) are so homophobic it's not even funny anymore.  
•Irene is literally lesbian, they canonized that shit. My rationale is that she does it for money, the it being her dominatrix career choice. She's really good at keeping personal feelings away from clients and being a major manipulator for information. I cry for this woman every night.  
●been writing this for a long time so dont get mad of its inconsistencies.


	2. Stupid Himbo Cunts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be a long one boys. Fuck all with this separation. Anyway this is pining for new neighbors because who doesn't like being tropes.
> 
> Ye Old Laundry Switcheroo. A classic!

The first time there was a mix-up in the building's laundry was on the first week. 221b's residents have forgotten about their newly acquired neighbor, and the clothing had gotten thrown haphazardly into the communal washing machine without a second thought. 

By the time John had realized it was too late and he folded most of the laundry, only getting to a pair of rather unique underwear were he realized that some of it wasn't either his or Sherlock's. Or at least he had hoped not.

With baskets in hand, he had gone down to 221C, the hallway smelling of newly cut wood and the overwhelming smell of freshly dried paint. John gingerly knocked on the flat's door, hoping to not be in at a bad time.

The door opened to reveal the neighbor in question. They both looked to eachother, and the baskets of clean folded clothes inbetween them. 

"Uh.. hello. John right?" His neighbor smiled, a little amused.

"Yeah, and I assume you're Florence?" John said, offering one of the baskets to Florence who took one into his hands.

Florence chuckled, "You got it. Now why don't you come in and we can sort through these." 

He led John into his flat's living room. They both took a seat on the available seats, John on the sofa and Florence on the accompaning loveseat. John took in the smell of the place as he pulled out the stacks of clothing from the basket by his feet. It smelt rather nice in here, despite the man living alone. He couldn't quite place it but it smelt tropical, like it was on the cusp of being fruity.

They sorted through the clothing, having small spats of chatter about clothing choices, which article was whose, the weather, small things like that. The silence that withheld in the space inbetween the mindless chatter wasn't entirely awkward, it was just filled with sorting.

The two men couldn't entirely sort through without question though, they found duplicates of plaid shirts and multiple pairs of socks. They laughed at that and sorted out who would take what. John soon returned to his own shared flat, saying goodbye to Florence on his way out. 

That was an honest mistake that would certainly not repeat. Right? Well, sort of. The second time it was only a few items, like a pair of fitting dungarees, a few jumpers and a nice blue satin dress shirt left behind from the pair. 

Florence was the one to catch these, taking up the clothing to 221B, already washed and folded. He knocked and waited for an answer. A "come in!" was shouted from deeper in the flat, so he helped himself to the door. 

He was not expecting to see a mannequin hanging from the ceiling once he had entered. Nor was he expecting to see his other neighbor on an armchair looking like an absolute mess either. John came out of the kitchen with a tea tray, relaxing a bit once he saw it wasn't who he was expecting. 

Florence mentioned to the mannequin, chuckling to himself. "Was he at least a guilty man?" 

John came over to take the stack of recognizable clothing articles from his neighbor. "Ask Sherlock, it's for one of his cases."

Florence raised his eyebrow, questioning the method but left it at that, now addressing the clothes. "The dress shirt is different."

John shifted a bit, placing the clothes down on his arm chair. "Oh that isn't mine it's his."

"Still, it's a nice blue. Anyway, I'll get out of your hair."

"Thank you! We are very greatful for you returning clothes, now go! We have clients coming in." Sherlock piped up, impatient, scratching at himself. "Useless, doesn't even smoke. John where are the cigarettes?"

John said a goodbye after Florence who was down the stairs already and shut the door.

Time had passed and almost every other laundry venture for either parties grew to having clothes left behind. It had been growing to become a habit at this point. Florence getting to know his neighbors more, and their friends. He grew to know that John was a patient man, holding an ex military role under his belt. He was adaptive and kind, and sometimes he wanting other company besides his flatmate. He was a bit of a lady's man, not too boastful about it, but he has gotten around a little.

John smells of the ocean and lavender. A nice gentle combination of laundry soap and dryer sheets. Sherlock smells the same, of course, but with an added cigarette haze, although Florence never seen the man actually smoke.

John had grown to know more about Florence, too. That he was withdrawn, but friendly. He hunted fairly frequently, going away for most of the week to a lodge he and a few mates own. He too wanted some company sometimes, other than himself. He was steady, quiet, needing the skill to aim his rifle to unsuspecting game.

John knew of the hours Florence spent in the bathroom, catching him one day covered in blood. He saw that he used his bathtub to hang deer upside down to drain into buckets. He knew of the multiple knives being displayed on the wall just outside, the big box freezer just besides the fridge. Florence used every part of the deer, havign minimal waste, as many of his mates could use the parts. 

He used the meat in meat pies that he would cook for Ms. Hudson's cafe on occasion and she would make it into a special for the week. He would use the blood and organs in special dishes, he would use the bones as craft projects, and the skulls for decorations. He has a bin in his closet full of deer antlers. 

John knew of his desensitization to gore, as did Sherlock. But for different reasons. Sherlock knew it because of his own countless anatomical experimentations being discovered by the man. The heads in the fridge, the loose eyeball that fell onto the floor, the way Florence reacted when he accidentally stepped on it. Sherlock didn't know the /because/ to the reaction but he deduced the /why/.

John also knew now of the smell of his flat. Florence smelt of a sunset breeze, overlooking, wisping through the trees of an island forest. Hawaiian Ginger. Even though it was meant to be more of a women's smell, Florence still used it. 

"It's a good smell, you have to admit," He said to John one day over tea.

John did like the smell, but only because it was refreshing to him. John thought that it was just something different from the everyday smells of London, or his apartment, or any of the women he had come across. It was something out of the blue. May it had been used by anybody else, it might've made him have a headache. But Florence was different. 

Months go by still, and there was the most inopportune time that Florence could've came in. 

The Woman made him drop the laundry and spit and sputter over his words, the energy too raw for the man. He saw John sat at the flat's desk, looking straight back at him with just as much surprise while Sherlock quipped back and forth with Ms Irene Adler. She had stopped at one point to look over at the man, changing her position to tend to his gaze. 

What was more interesting is that he had used her services once, about three years ago. Mind you, it was a joke birthday gift, but it was still used. This came as a surprise to John, not taking the man to be into that sort of thing -not as if he was to think of the man's intimate preferences on the regular- but that could explain the occasional lewd undergarments the man would leave behind. He didn't think much of it, just thinking he had someone over to impress. 

As soon as Irene went to leave the flat and pass Florence, a devilish grin split on her face. She stopped, lingering on the man, feathery hand tracing down his arm.

"You haven't changed a bit, Lorie." Her voice was low and sultry as she dipped inward to him. "Love the smell."

They could see the shiver that went through him, his face reaching a hue that neither of them has seen before. And then she was gone, a ghost in the wind. Moments passed and soon an uttered word.

Sherlock smirked a little, amused, "Lorie?"

"See you, John!" Hands went over his face, trying to cool down. He turned and exited the flat in a rush.

Weeks upon weeks pass and it's suddenly the holidays. Florence had just gotten back from the longest hunting trip that the residents at Baker street has ever seen. Of course they didn't know for sure that it was a hunting trip, but it was a guess made by the amazing Sherlock, a great guess. Ms. Hudson was beginning to worry about him, but she couldn't really complain as he had left her the renter's pay for the two months he had been gone. 

He had arrived in the middle of the day, carrying the biggest cadaver bag the street has ever seen. People walking by glanced at the man lugging the baggage through the door from his truck. Sherlock was looking down from the window just as he entered the building with it, seeing the tail end. 

"John, Florence."

John had gotten up from reading today's paper at his chair and ran to the window to see the back of the man disappear into the building, his truck parked just outside. Flying through the flat's door, he hurled himself down the stairs in utter excitement. He turned to see a giant bag entering the lower flat.

"Need help?" John asked, rather cheery.

The struggling voice of Florence rang through John's ears, sarcasm dripping. "Not at all!"

John lifted the end of the bag, it being heavy, and helped lumber it into the flat fully. Ms. Hudson came to observe.

"What are you bringing in this time, dear?"

"Oh! Ms. Hudson! This here," Florence dropped the two length body bag, followed by John, with a grunt. "Is a moose!"

"A moose?" John gasped.

"Where did you find a moose!?" She asked, exasperated.

Florence just smiled, "Wonderful lands with wonderful lads. Did you get the full payment?"

Ms Hudson nodded, just staring as Florence unzipped the entire bag. It was, indeed, a moose. The animal's legs tucked and bound to it's body. The head lulled and rested on the ground, it's antlers cut off but not in the bag. It was twice as big as any of them, black course fur that had sappy pine needles stuck on the bottom. The smell leaked from it, smelling purely of forest. 

"I hope you don't plan to gut that thing here," Ms Hudson swallowed. 

"Don't worry Ms Hudson!" Florence smiled, shooing her towards the door, "I've got tarps."

"If I have to replace that carpet again, it'll come out of your pocket!" She shouted as Florence closed the door on her.

Florence laughed and turned back to the task at hand, "Mind lugging this thing to the tub?"

-

John returned to the flat, his clothes slightly bloodied. Sherlock glanced up at him once John was in sight, grabbing some crackers out of the cupboard. His hair was a mess, some dried blood clumping some of it together. His eyes held a certain ambiguity of a mix of disgust and disbelief. Clearly he has experienced something labor intensive, as he was sweaty.

"Did you happen to make some sauce while you were down in Italy?" Sherlock poked at him while he went back to analyzing some bacterial growth. 

"Florence, I.. he has... got.. there's, uh," John put down the box of crisps and ran his hands down his face, recollecting his thoughts. "A moose! He brought back a moose!"

Sherlock chuckled, "A moose?"

"He went all the way to the Northwest Territories! Canada, Sherlock! Canada!"

"It is fall," Sherlock paused, "How'd he get it back here?"

"He said that one of his mates has a cargo plane or something of the sort." John pulled out a chair and flopped down and put his head on his hands. "Three months and he shows up with a moose, wanting me to help with it! He's insane!"

"And yet, you helped." Sherlock said, moving to another microbe dish as John groaned, slamming his head down on the table.

"I know!"

□■□■□

John had gotten cleaned up for the most part. Little bits of flesh and dirt still underneath his fingernails, his scrubbing only pushed it deeper. He had showered and changed into a fresh pair of clothes. He placed his bloodied ones into a plastic bag, hoping to wash them separately in cold water.

John decided to check up on Florence while he was at it, to collect his clothes, to see if he was done butchering for the day. He knocked on 221C's white door and entered after a 'yeah' was heard. 

He walked through the apartment, over the slippery tarps placed near the bathroom door that led to the kitchen and knocked on the door. The dropping of metal and a squishy splat was heard over the rather loud music. The door opened to reveal Florence, his sandy-blond hair tied back, the front of him caked in blood and a smile on his face. He turned the music down.

"Back for more?" He joked, grabbing an organ from the sink behind the door, "Could use someone to rinse and bag."

"No! God no, I need your clothes." John said mentioning to the bag in his hand. "Figured you would appreciate your laundry done."

A stupor smile found its way onto Florence's face, "Mate, these were my only clean clothes. So unless you want me to walk around literally bloody and nude I need to borrow your shower and some pants."

"Do I even want to ask about underwear?" John cringed playfully. 

Florence snorted, "Just go and come back in 20 minutes. I gotta put these on ice."

□■□■□

Half an hour passed and a shower later, a shirtless Florence was sitting with a pantsless John on 221B's couch with two cases of beer on the coffee table, chatting up a storm much to Sherlock's demise. The two men talked, whispered, and giggled like school children. It was really distracting to the detective.

He was trapped here, as the day's weather took a turn and was currently dumping water onto anything and everything. Sherlock needed to finish with his little project but it was hard due to the increasing volume of the other's voices. He even closed both the glass doors and the door to the landing. 

"Sherlock!" Florence and John cried out, one after the other and then the one again. Both their tones wove the seems of a pillow annoyance Sherlock was currently suffocated with.

Sherlock went over to the double door entryway of the kitchen and opened both of them somewhat harshly. "What! What! What!"

Florence laughed his heart out, clearly very much intoxicated. His face was flushed, his nose red and his sluggish posture on the couch. This man had literally one too many. John, as it seemed, was just as bad. His face too was flushed, but his ears got red instead of his nose. They were leaning into eachother drunkenly. Subconsciously. 

"Could you grab us the-the-the... crisps out of the cupboard." John asked. He tumbled over his words, repeatedly sluring them. 

"Please?" Florence added. 

They both gave him puppy eyes as he just stared at the pair. Finally giving in, he went and grabbed the carton box of goldfish for them to snack on. These things haven't been touched since John bought it on impulse while he was out one day. He said they were for if they wanted to snack, but Sherlock was clearly disappointed in John's selection. Sherlock was above goldfish, he wasn't nine. He prefered fruit snacks. He brought it over to the pair who happily took the carton. 

"You're the best man to ever exist, Sherlock. Thank you." Florence said, then shoveled the extra-cheesy crackers into his mouth. 

Sherlock was somewhat surprised about how sincere this drunk man was, but overall was not amused. He left them to their own devices after that, deciding to put his project on hold for the day, retreating to his room with his laptop. 

-  
The morning eventually came, the cold chilly morning. Sherlock was the one to wake up first, coming across the scene of the two men entangled, softly snoring away as he made his way into the kitchen to finish whatever he was doing the day before. 

Mrs. Hudson came up to check up on them at somepoint, her mousey footsteps echoing in the flat and then disappearing moments later down the stairs. A blanket appeared ontop of the two when he finished up his microbial study two hours later.

This was the quietest the flat has been for a long time, it must've been a new record. John usually having the telly on for the morning news or the clattering of the keyboard as he typed the end of an article for his blog. Sherlock was pleased with the silence which allowed him to revel in his thoughts. 

He was not so much pleased with the smelly mess of cans littered around the couch. He went over to his violin and picked up the instrument along with the bow. The stroke of a haunting note cascaded through the apartment. It lingered through his ears, ringing him to the core. He didn't know what to play, what emotion to wring out from within. 

Slow, gentle, exact notes, played with his fingers, plucked and strummed. He was unsure of what to feel. Contentment? Was he to be pensive? The perplexity he felt was unsettling at most. He tucked the violin underneath his chin, using his bow to shout out an ugly unsteady note, loud, infuriatingly tensed. 

He continued, flowing through a conglomerated mess of half-assed compositions until settling on the melody of Salut d'amour, Op. 12. He didn't know this piece by heart, but he didn't want to. The occasional missed notes were crucial to the unsure frustration crust of intention that he wanted. Messy but predictable, almost too much so.

John was the first to come to, his head pounding from the borrowed joy of yesterday. His ears perking up to the music, turning his head to see Sherlock staring out the flat's window as he played. John went to sit up but found that Florence had tucked himself into John, holding him captive to the couch. 

Sherlock heard the soft groan that came from John, glancing over to see the man with his hands on his head underneath their neighbor, and he elected not to say anything, just continuing to push out notes.

John wouldn't say that the body ontop of him was unpleasant, as it was reminiscent of the days he would bring a girl home after picking her up at a pub. Although this time he did not feel all sweaty from exertion, he just had the comforting weight of the man pinning him and an annoying tinge to his head. 

John tried shaking the man awake, his softening callouses of his hands poked, prodded and patted Florence's shoulders. A groan elicited from the man's throat as he rolled off the veterin and onto the floor, taking half the blanket with him. His eyes squeezed from the impact, opening shortly after. He stilled, the music from Sherlock capturing his attention. 

Florence turned his head to peer at Sherlock from under the coffee table, "Salute D'amore, right?"

"Your back might appreciate you getting off the cans," was all Sherlock said.

"Right." Florence turned his head to the couch where the doctor lays just over the edge, "Morning."

John turned to meet Florence face to face, gaze to gaze. "Morning."

They both stared at the other's flushed morning face, a smile finding its way onto their faces as laughter crept up into their throats. It was silly, the way they made eachother laugh. The fact that they were both a mess didn't help the giggles to die down. John looked as if he hadn't slept in days, his face sunken. Florence looked like he had been in a whirlwind, his hair clumped up and cowlicked. But eventually they did settle, leaving a comfortable feeling in the aftermath. 

The day progressed, Florence collecting the cans, crushing them against his thigh before placing them into the box that originally held them. The cans rattled around when they were thrown into the bin. John was busy making eggs for three at the stove, the sizzling and the aroma filled the flat as Florence exited the flat to find Mrs. Hudson, objectively wanting to return the blanket.

He found her in her little yellow kitchen, sitting at her table drinking tea while the radio played from the counter. She smiled at his appearance. 

"Good morning," He grinned at her, placing the blanket on the back of the chair opposite of her.

"Morning dear," Mrs. Hudson said as she looked up at him, her face dusting a slight pink afterwards. 

Florence furrowed his eyebrows, a bit confused. "You alright, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Oh, I'm fine. It's just... you have a little something..." She motioned to the side of her neck sheepishly. 

His hand raised to the spot she was pointing at, rubbing slightly. He didn't feel anything besides tenderness, which he assumed to be from sleeping on the couch, "I have a what?"

Her voice was quite, "A hickey."

Florence's eyes grew wide, frantically looking around for a mirror or anything reflective. He settled on the clean metal kettle that was on her stove, seeing his bent relection in the silver. There was, indeed, a giant dark mark on the crook of his neck. His face grew hot at the realization. 

He quickly covered it with his hand, "Oh, Mrs. Hudson, I am so sorry!"

She laughed at her tenant's reaction, happy for him to have some modesty. "It's alright dear. Just go put some clothes on."

He quickly rushed out, saying a quick goodbye. He fled to his flat, trying to find anything to cover up his torso. He purged his closet, finding a nice grey zip-up to throw on before trudging back upstairs again to join John for breakfast. Florence passed Sherlock on the way up, the man fully dressed to go out. They both glanced at eachother as he zipped up the stairs. Florence could've swarn that he saw the man's eyes widen a bit before passing completely. 

Florence caught John at the end of his cooking, him plating the eggs and toast. He looked up as soon as he entered the kitchen, squeezing into a chair as he did so. 

"Where'd you run off to?" John said while setting the plate down infront of Florence. 

"I, uh, went to return the blanket to Mrs. Hudson." Florence smiled for the food, "Thank you."

John sat down, digging in. They sat in silence, accompanied by the scratching of forks against plates. John glanced at his neighbor, his sandy kinky hair falling onto his freckled face. Florence had really bad bedhead. He looked away to take another bite of his breakfast, biting into the toast. He snuck another look, his eyes falling on the man's thin jawline. It pointed down to his neck, making John follow down to the indent of his strong, now-covered shoulders. He noticed the pink on the man's neck peaking from zip-up's hood.

Florence caught him the third time he tried to sneak a glance. He was mid-bite as he paused, catching John eyeing at his neck. Florence put down his yolk soaked toast and sat back in his chair, catching John's gaze. Clearly flustered, he tried to come up with an excuse to why he was looking. He didn't need to but he tried.

"The... hoodie's new."

"It's not," Florence rolled up the clearly worn-out sleeves a bit.

Florence noticed that John was focused on the mark on his neck, his eyes falling down and then back onto his face. He shoved the hoodie out if the way for him, allowing the man to see the full damage. John's eyes widened with shock as his face went pale.

"Who..." John tried but couldn't bring himself to ask such a question. 

Florence caught his gaze, silently preying that the man would get it. He didn't remember much of last night himself, only that it was pleasant and that they chatted. But he knew that these marks weren't there yesterday. Thankfully, John got the message. 

Elbows on the table, John shoved his reddening face into his hands, "Bloody hell! How drunk were we?"

"Elbows, John." Florence turned his attention back to his cooling food.

John elicited a feral gasp. "You're worried about elbows on the table when you're telling me that I snogged all over your neck last night?"

"It's impolite." Florence said with a mouthful of eggy toast.

"Jesus!"

□■□■□

Days pass and the marks have cleared up. The memory, though, has not.

John became skittish around Florence, eyes always avoiding his gaze. He decided it was best to take a break to sort out his spinning head. John was grateful to be pulled along for cases. He was gone for most days, as Sherlock had him come along everywhere he went. 

Sherlock had felt pity for John, feeling as he needed to help his flatmate out a little. He didn't expect John to be totally into the cases, finding it was better for him to be dragged along as a distraction than for work. It was annoying, yes, but Sherlock had to deal with it. 

John was so out of it, he left his laundry behind as he fell asleep in his own bed. Meaning for it to be a quick half hour nap, he planned to tag along to the morgue after he at least folded his clothing. It didn't exactly go as planned, as Sherlock went ahead without him, leaving John to sleep for five hours in total while the laundry sat in the machines. 

Florence, meanwhile, had just gotten back to his flat from work. He shrugged off his brightly colored vest from over his white dress-shirt and tossed it onto the back of his recliner. He dragged himself to his bedroom, grabbing his dirty clothes hamper from his closet. He lugged the laundry to the machines only to realize that they were full. 

They were both done by this point, so he took it upon himself to switch the loads out. Florence pulled the dry clothes out, put the wet clothes in and put his own clothes in the washer, starting it soon after. He stared at the pile of clean clothes, sitting in the plastic chair besides the washer. John's purple jumper stared right back.

Florence folded the rest of his neighbor's clothes, nicking the purple jumper from the pile for himself. It smelt like John, that flowery ocean breeze. He tucked the jumper underneath his arm, picked up the basket and ran it up to 221b's stairwell landing. He placed it just outside the door to the flat, running back down the stairs to his own flat. He closed the door and went to his couch, kicking off his dress-shoes as he face planted into the fabric. He pulled the jumper to his face, breathing in the smell as he slipped into a daze. 

He awoke to the washing machine beeping its little tune, telling someone that it was done. He pushed himself away from his couch, away from John's jumper, and went out to switch the laundry, folding the rest of his neighbors' clothes, rushing them up to the basket upstairs as well. He put the rest of his clothes through the run-cycle, retreating to his flat soon after. 

Florence shed himself of his clothing and took a shower, his bathroom clean of all moose remnants. The bathtub has been stained pink by the copious amounts of blood that the man had forced upon it ever since he moved here. Florence had brought home only five animals, three deer, a ram, and most recently that moose, but the tub proved a formidable opponent and refuses to let go of that pink staining. 

He walked through his flat nude, finding a towel to dry himself off in the hallway's closet. Florence went to his bedroom to throw on some form fitting underwear plus ankle socks. He went back to his couch, picking up the jumper and putting it on as well. He turned on his television to ITV4, letting some show run as he waited for the dryer to stop. A dick joke or two passed and the sound of a blowhorn wailed. Wah-wah-wah wahh wah.

Florence took the rest of his dry clothes and put them away in his closet for later, deciding to blare his speaker and make some brownies before he went to bed.

John woke up to the faint booming of heavy metal. He shot up out of his bed, groggy and disoriented. He went down the flight of stairs that led to his bedroom, the music louder now, but not coming from his own flat. He saw the basket of clean folded clothes on the ground, but walked passed it down ths stairs. 

He ventured forth, the door of 221c clearly emitting the noise. The heavy metal music had stopped now, a pop song now welcoming anyone who listened. John hesitated at the door, his hand on the handle, feeling the pulsating rhythm that came from behind. For as loud as it is, he's surprised that Mrs. Hudson doesn't come with vengeance. 

He held his breathe as he opened the unlocked door, venturing inside. 

_"Cause she's fine / But for an angel, she's a hot, hot mess / Make you so blind / but you don't mind"_

He followed the source, hearing that someone was singing along as he got to the kitchen's doorway. His breathe held in his lungs, a stillness placed upon him like a curse. Florence hadn't noticed him standing there, gawking. John was so, so, so glad that he didn't as he heard him belt out the lyrics.

_"Cause she's an uptown, get-around, / anything-goes girl / She's a hardcore, candy-store, / give-me-some-more girl"_

Florence's broad back was turned towards John, the purple jumper clinging to him as he lost himself into a half-dancing brownie mixing, his shoulders raising intune to the music. The bowl was tucked into the crease of his arm, making it hard for him to properly enjoy the song, restricting his movements as he tried not to make a mess.

John couldn't help but smile as Florence sang along confidently.

_"Sayin' yeeeeaaaah, and / you want her,/ but she's so mean / You'll never let her go, / why don't you let her go?"_

Florence danced over to the sink, putting down the bowl of freshly mixed wet ingredients, only to reach up to the cupboards above go fish out the flour, sugar, and cocoa powder along with chocolate chips. He swished all over to the chorus, seeming to have his own choreography to it.

John couldn't look away, he didn't want to. Florence's curly hair bouncing around with his movements, John's sweater rolling up on him everytime he reaches up, the socks on his feet allowing him to slip with control around the linoleum floor as he put in ingredients. John couldn't help but find that the underwear Florence was wearing hugged _really_ nice places on his body. 

_"She's got a wicked sense of humor, can't believe what she says. / She drinks Bacardi in the morning till it goes to her head, / And all you want is just to hold her, / but she don't go for that / She has a hard time comin' when she can't hit back. / Sayin' yeah-"_

Florence stoped his vibrato in its tracks once his eyes met John's when he turned. He dropped the rubber spatula onto the ground, mouth slacked a bit. His face dropped, mortified, and turned a deep shade of red as the song continued on. 

John shyly waved from the doorframe as Florence caught his breath once again. He reached for the remote connected to the fridge, taking it at pausing the music. The bass stoped, the comfort of its rhythm gone, leaving empty air. 

"How long have you been there?" Florence fetched the spatula from the floor, moving to clean it in the sink.

John blinked, "Not... long."

"So the whole time?" He returned to his brownies to destract himself. 

"No, I-uh..." John exhaled in defeat, "Yeah."

Florence was quiet, cheeks still dusted pink. He has never felt so emasculated in his entire life. 

John stood next to him as he mixed the batter, words just barely above a whisper. "You have a nice voice."

"You really think so?" Florence glanced attention to the doctor as he kept on folding the mix.

John moved in closer, his side now flush against the other man's, "You're wearing my jumper."

Florence slipped in the smallest smile. "Yeah."

John watched as Florence pulled away, grabbing a glass pan. He sprayed it down with canned butter, emptying the brownie batter into it afterwards. He opened the preheated oven and slipped the pan in, closing it and setting the time on the egg. Florence looked over his shoulder to see John focused on him. 

Florence exited the kitchen, John following close behind. He plopped down on the couch, jumper running up, exposing himself to the man. John slid in next to him, leaving a small space in between them. Maybe an inch.

To them, that inch felt like a mile.

□□□

John's head was spun as he sat side by side with his neighbor, the turns nauseating and the dips disgustingly slow. Time cranked on, inching forward as slow as a snail. He has never met a man that held him in such a position, the confusing emotions stealing him through short conversations, his heart on the verge of collapse. He wasn't into men, at least, that was what he thought before he met Florence. He was attractive, although he couldn't place it to specifically one trait like he could with women. 

Women were easy to gulp down, they are soft, understanding, easy to hold. They usually have one defining factor that he's drawn to. Usually he goes for women with a bit of an attitude, they're beautifully independent, hard workers. He loved them, because they were easy for him.

Florence was different, he had caught John, intentionally or not. John was not as ready to be caught like he was ready to catch. He was off-gaurd, slipping on his back and into the arms of this man. It was different, not a bad different, but different. He wasn't prepared for this impromptu trust-fall, but no one truly is when it comes to love.

John doesn't know if it's the hair or what, but he's captivated by this man. John turns and leans towards him, closing proximity. He can hear the way Florence's breath hitches as he reaches out and smooths out his kinky blonde hair, hands flushing half the hair to his head. It was soft to the touch, silky even.

They both gaze at each others features, tracing lines with the invisible gauge of their eyes; memorizing every line, every curve, every dip, dive, hole, pour, crack, hair, and freckle on the other's face. 

So much flickering in this light of passion. John needs to know, he's dying to know.

John dips in to capture his lips, pulling him along into a bruising zeal with the chaise touch of roaming hands. His hands release Florence's hair, bringing themselves to rest on his hips, thumbs hooked into the tight underwear band for grip. Florence's hands run up John's sides, spreading out on the man's chest and dragging to each of his shoulders, wrapping each of his arms to pull him closer. Slow and tender, savory even. Their lips tangled and danced, like trees in the wind. They stole the other's air for themselves, lungs burning with that solidarity. 

They pulled apart for air, eyes opening and locking, both breathless as a stupor smile spread over their flushed faces. Florence's blonde hair framed his face as he went in, peppering kisses onto John's lips and face. John tried to capture his lips once again, Florence avoiding it by trailing down his neck, biting ever so subtly, teeth grazing skin. 

John decided to run his hands down and pinch the man's ass, making him gasp as he went in for another kiss. John took Florence's tongue in a hungry frenzy, pulling the man fully onto his lap. The boxers Florence wore did little to deter his visible arousal as they ground against each other. It was decided that John's trousers were deliciously textured.

"God," John moaned into his neighbor's mouth, accompanied by a rather crude thrust of hip.

Florence broke away, his hands trailing down on the man under him as his mouth opened to say some sort of reply but the egg went off.

"Brownies are done," A cheeky smile spread on his face as he slid out of John's grasp.

John could feel the lingering touches as he watched the man escape into the kitchen. Florence's hair bounced with every step, brushing along his jumper covered shoulders.

John shivered.


	3. Christmas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i dunno, fuckin i guess there's a major timeskip uhhh yeah molly is a sweetheart and i will give her my heart.   
> Sherlock is not a complete dick to her in this version i will do as i please.
> 
> This one is not as long!! Excuse the dick-assery.

Such a pungent taste Christmas brings to the holiday scene. Everyone's celebrating with their friends and family, they're all happy with the gifts they bring and get. The food worth more during this time than any other, people slaving over the kitchens to prepare a big, hearty dinner. Orange and cloves run rampant through the snow covered streets as shops and houses alike put up tinsel and wreaths and ornaments. 

It brings good spirits to all.

Unless your name is Florence Ingram, then you spend it out away from civilization, in the middle of the snow buried forest up in a hunting blind. The bitter below celcius bites at Florence's skin, threatening to freeze him were he sat. The rifle sat infront of him, the light of the day slowly creeping off.

Florence hadn't seen any game around this time of day, well, night. Most mammels migrated or have burrowed themselves away into their own nooks and crannies. He wasn't here to take anything physically home with him. His truck sat ten full kilometers away from where the blind was, so the walk would take some time. 

He had plenty of meat at home, a party to attend, presents to give. But he found himself hunkered up here, freezing his balls off waiting for something to come by. He didn't even want to shoot at anything right now, just seeing the dulling light bounce off the snow and back up into the sky. 

He looked through his scope to see a rabbit hopping along in the snow, its grey fur glazed with white. It was heading to the right, towards a burrow at a tree's base. 

Florence's phone went off, the ringtone out of place in the quiet echos of falling snow. The rabbit picked up its pace, disappearing into the burrow. 

Florence reached to his phone, placing it to his ear as he picked up, "Allô?"

"It's been an hour since the party started, where are you?"

It was John.

Florence sighed into the phone, "I'm in a bit of a blind at the moment."

"A what?"

"I'm in a forest, John."

"It's negative nine!"

"Only a bit nippy, I'd say." Florence sat back from his rifle, his breath visible.

"It's snowing blankets!"

"That it is." Florence tucked his phone into his shoulder and ear.

Muttering was heard from the other side of the phone as well as laughter. "We're waiting for you, so come quickly so we can exchange gifts."

It wasn't that long before the snow crunched underneath his tires as he three-point turned onto the main road, empty by this time of night. His truck rumbled down and into town, passing a couple of vehicles on the way back to the flat. He let the heater run on his face for a minute, defrosting himself before pulling himself to his own flat to get ready for the Christmas party.

Florence decided to pull on semi-decent clothing; a green dress shirt tucked into charcoal gray dress pants with nice black shoes to accompany it. He brushed out his curly hair, the blonde mass atop his head a bit more compliant than usual. He quickly grabbed the gifts he planned to give to his neighbors and headed up the stairs.

The violin was playing Ode To Joy merrily as he entered the flat. The apartment smelt like fresh pine, a dressed Christmas Tree sat up in the corner. Mrs. Hudson sat in the middle of the room in a chair, Molly stood next to the doorway, John and his new girlfriend were a little more inward on the couch, Lestrade stood with a glass of wine in his hand, and Sherlock was playing right by the windows. 

Smiling at the scent, and to the detective who turned to him upon arrival, he pulled flush against his own Christmas Standards. 

The gift boxes in Florence's hands crinkled lightly as he moved about, "Merry Christmas, everyone."

"And a happy new year!" Sherlock placed down the instrument to meet the hunter. He took the gift handed to him, the large box causing a questioning look on his face. 

Florence turned to Mrs. Hudson and gave her her gift, this box a lot more slender but it still kept. Then finally, he went over to John and handed him his present, the box quite flat, and the only one with an actual bow. The other two had a sticked on one, though they all had the same care put into the wrapping. 

"You must be this Italian we've been hearing so much about." Greg piped up from his spot, grabbing Florence's attention immediately. 

He went over and gave Greg a fairly firm handshake, complimented by a brightly lit smile. "Not quite, but the name's Florence. You must be... Greg if I'm not mistaken."

He nodded, "Nice to finally meet you."

"Likewise." Florence grabbed an empty glass and poured himself some wine as Sherlock opened his gift.

"What'd he get you, deary?" Mrs. Hudson was interested in the big box.

Sherlock pulled it out, the antlers intricate and symmetrically shaped, they curled into one another, elegantly sprawling out into three different points. He removed the satin cloth from the skull, revealing the deer in all his glory.

"Deery indeed."

Sherlock was breathless at the gift, having no words to say for once. The people in the room snapped their attention to the gift giver, who was sipping on his wine.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock." Florence muttered out from behind the glass.

A pause permeated.

"Merry Christmas, Florence." Sherlock haphazardly thrown out, obviously delayed. 

"Where'd you get that?" Lestrade nudged a little, peaking back to Sherlock who was enthralled by the gift.

"I hunt in spare. You come across very beautiful animals from time to time." Florence shrugged, turning his attention back to his alcohol. 

"The antlers weren't naturally occurring," Sherlock spoke up, pausing to further inspect the skull. "They had some... intervention to get them to twirl like this. Certainly had an eye for design."

Florence chuckled, "Had one of my mates help me with that, they're used to coaxing antlers into being malleable growers. Besides that, there's no interference."

"It's beautiful." Molly piped up, "The antlers, I mean. It's amazing on how they grew."

Florence slid his way towards her just a tiny bit, holding out his hand for her to take. Which she did, albeit gingerly.

"Florence."

"Molly."

Mrs. Hudson picked up her gift and opened it rather swiftly. While Sherlock went to find a place to put his newly found treasure. She gasped slightly at the brand printed on the box, eyeing her renter.

"If you can afford this, why don't you just move into a house?" 

He chuckled, grinning widely as she continued to open the present. She pulled out an Helenia Eastbury-print midi dress, the robin blue strikingly so. Mrs. Hudson felt the ruffled fabric beneath her aged hands as she laughed. 

"Merry Christmas, Florence!"

"Merry Christmas, Mrs. Hudson."

It was John's turn to open his gift, his girlfriend, Janette, detached herself from him so he could do so. He untied the bow, the ribbon falling undone. He tore the top of the wrapping paper, opening the box and pulling out the carved wood. Except it wasn't wood, it was antler, moose antler to be specific. 

The intricate carving filled throughout the surface, the ends and dips and spirals and tiny shapes blended into eachother to produce a depiction of a tree alone in a field of flowers, the roots sprawling out as stars litter the scene's sky. The moon rose high above the tree, two people dancing on the moon, one androgynous, impervious to the viewer, and the other form was clearly masculine. Reminiscent of John himself, but not quite. Like it was a recollection from a dream. 

A dream that Florence clearly had shared with John at some point.

"Merry Christmas, John." Florence's smile did not come quickly as it did with others. 

He wished he was back at the blind, loosing himself to the quiet night's temperature with his rifle in hand while staring through his scope. He missed the kiss of the snow already. 

John turned over the carving, seeing a little note carved into it and immediately turned it back over. He looked to Florence, who was currently chugging the rest of the wine from his glass. He looked nice tonight. The green of his shirt brought out his eyes and complimented his hair. He looked nice... besides the tension permeating from the man.

John uttered out a quiet, "Merry Christmas."

And the night continued, mindless chatter filled the flat, nice and charming atmosphere. Florence mostly talked to Greg and Molly, though Greg asked questions mostly and Molly awkwardly fumbled about the conversation. 

"You look nice, Molly. I love the hair." Florence said sipping on his umpteenth glass of wine, the buzz clearly in his head. 

"Oh," Molly blushed at the compliment. "Thank you. I like yours as well. Is your hair that curly naturally or do you curl it? I'm sorry you must get asked that all the time-"

"You're fine, and it's natural," Florence smiled at Molly's reaction. He was doing a lot of smiling tonight, maybe it was the wine? "Did you get any gifts this Christmas?"

Molly paled a little from the question, rubbing awkwardly at her forearm. "No... but I did give."

Florence fingers were feathery against Molly's shoulder, testing if it was okay to touch. Her hand immediately covering his. She was shaking. 

"You did alright," Florence wasn't sure what happened in the span of time he took to get here, but he managed to get the jist from her clear stress. After all, he was in the same boat. 

Molly nodded, staring out at the merry decorations in the room along with Florence. Both feeling rather dissolved this Christmas. 

\--

By new year's, John's head was swimming. He didn't understand the distance he was getting. Florence caught a flight off to somewhere, leaving money for Mrs. Hudson once again. This time it was for quite a while, years worth. Mrs. Hudson was quite confused on why Florence stays here in permanence when it seems that he could just as easily buy a cottage in the woods, living out his hunting dreams. But, she was content with the money so there was no reason to complain. 

"I swear he barely stays put." Mrs. Hudson huffed while putting down a tea tray. "Like a bird he is."

"He's living like the best of us." Sherlock droned on from behind the laptop screen, clattering down on the keys wildly. "Free as one can be."

"Where does he even go?" 

She was not met with a reply as John stomped through the door, arms full of groceries. The squeaking of his shoes loud. He waddled through the flat and into the kitchen. 

"Hello Mrs. Hudson!" He called once he put down the groceries. 

"Let me help you dear," She followed him into the kitchen, ruffling through the bags, pulling out the items.

"Thank you," John opened the fridge, lettuce in hand, "Oh for God's sake, Sherlock. Why are there feet in the crisper?"

The typing got even louder.

-

Years pass and Sherlock gets a phone call in his flat. His smartphone rings loudly as he dropped his violin to his side. John is out and it is a day before his massive disappearing act. He decided to play a simple expression before he went away. 

No one should be calling him due to recent drama. Yet, here we are.

On the fourth ring, he picks up.

"Hello neighbor," Sherlock could practically feel the smile from the other side.

"What a surprise." He offered. 

"I forgot Mrs. Hudson's cell. New phone and all." A slight pause left Sherlock creasing his brows. "Tell her I sent money."

"That all you rung for?"

The line was quiet. 

"Hello?" 

"No," Florence's voice shrunk and became less sunny. "I called for John."

Sherlock clicked his tongue. "Would you like to leave a message?"

"Would you?"

Sherlock couldn't answer. The line beeped to an end after a moment. The unknown number flashed red and he was left alone once again. This time with his own cold thoughts. Sherlock has already made up his mind, so he went down to tell Mrs. Hudson about the money.


	4. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Florence leaves
> 
> Sherlock dies
> 
> Sherlock isn't dead
> 
> Florence arrives

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this part i remember is a bit rushed so that equals bad quality. R I P i guess.

There lies Sherlock Holmes, under that grand pine tree. The dead needles clumped together on the wet earth, the smell of the perspiring grass folding out it's muddled aroma like it was a weekend's hour. His grave marbles its black, the reflection of the world boring into this one man's grave.

Mrs. Hudson stood next to John, her crying absolutely out of it. She was more frustrated now, the bits of his insufferable attitude flicked in her mind. He was the worst, so spoiled and bratty. Yet, he was the best that the old woman had ever known. 

John had to stop her from going further in their pickings about the man, as his feelings were muddied up his throat like he was swallowing thick water. He waited until it was just him at the grave, he could only do this in private.

Yet he wasn't in the private, was he? 

\---

Then, eventually, John had met Mary. That was only once he threw himself into his work due to the grievances. He took to her immediately, first from Mary's sure stature, then from her overwhelmingly comfortable atmosphere and finally he took to her. 

He took her out on dates and she took him out on them. They've had dinner so many times, so many romantic outings, so many nights spent together in eachothers arms. John went to therapy less, Mary filling the holes left behind. So welcoming. 

In this relationship that he had with Mary, he was so sure in himself that he took to trying new things with Mary. They were surprising, but he at least liked them. Let's just say he got really comfortable with the color pink.

Then, as John was moving in with his girlfriend he found that his drawers weren't exactly his drawers.

"I've never seen you wear those before." Mary giggled as she peaked through the bathroom door from her bed.

"That's the thing, I'm not even sure they're mine." John kept on adjusting the small but airy electric-purple briefs, the thin fabric hugging to him just so. The elastic wasn't overwhelming choking his waist either. It was quality. 

"Come out, let's see." She beckoned. 

"I'm not too sure," John said sliding out of the loo. "But these may or may not become a common occurrence."

Mary whistled for John and crawled to the edge of the bed, encouraging him to pose for her. He smiled and dipped his back in, raised his leg and turned so Mary could have a look at it all. He turned to the other side, mirroring his previous form and then finally swiveled towards her, his waist extended out forward as he gave her a playfully pouty look.

"Definitely." Mary pulled him in, kissing him deeply. They moved onto the bed, only for Mary to pull back. "But who'd you knick them from?"

"I think," John pecked her lips before moving onto pecking her neck, "That these were planted."

"They've certainly got taste." Mary ran her nails down his back slowly.

John shivered, his hair rising and his dick so incredibly hard. "Enough about them, more about us." 

___

Florence stopped at the hill's dropoff, the steepness breath shattering and wind careening through the valley.

"Hey Cal, how much you'd stick in if I could land ontop of that barn down there?" Florence shouted over his shoulder. 

"Uh, I dunno. Five bucks?" The dragging of the second wind glider pulled up beside the man. 

"I'd do it for a nickle but sure, let's do five." Florence shrugged and took off, the laughter from his friend flying behind him. 

His glider swept through the air and the wind cut back on it. Florence caught the gusto, having to aim more down than he would've liked. His hair ruffled behind him as the valley raced under. The green hills blurred as the barn infront paced closer and closer. He kicked his legs out as he pulled up the glider, skinning across the barns roof. 

Florence swiveled to the left, ending the flight in it's entirety. He glanced back to his friend, Calvin, who flew his glider down next to the barn, where they were supposed to end up landing. The white painted target said it all. Florence took to jumping off the roof with his glider and down onto the swampy grass below. 

Florence met up with Calvin, who was digging in his pocket for change. 

"Keep it," Florence said, handing off his glider to one of the glinder attendees. "Just know you owe me one."

"Bruh, you have like six favors from me alone." Calvin handed his to the other glider attendee. "Can't you just take the money?"

"Nah. Don't need it." Florence shrugged, pulling out his phone as he lifted his goggles off his face. "Besides, getting me a burger when I ask you to isn't that hard."

"It's inconvenient." Calvin chuckled. 

"How." Florence tapped call and put his ear to his phone, hearing it ring. "Gotta call mummy dearest."

Calvin shrugged and wandered off to the rest of the glider barn, seeing as they held many of gliders inside. 

The phone rang through, as Florence walked off to the side and out of the way. 

The line connected after six rings, "Hello?"

Florence kicked at the ground, "Is this a bad time?"

"Oh, no no. Just a perfect time, in fact, thank you!" Sherlock sounded stuffed up on the other end.

"Sounds like you went through a bad time."

Sherlock payed no attention, carrying on merrily. "Have you been spending time in America? You sound like a pig."

"Ha!" Florence snorted, "Who'd you get ruffed up by?"

"A lovely couple." Sherlock said over the voices. The tone beeped like it was a dial pad, "A lot has happened."

"Uh... It has been a while of course a lot of things are going to happen."

The line was quiet. Florence stood there against the barn, hearing street cars pass through the speaker. Was he on blast on the other end? 

This voice was a woman's voice, "Hello? You still there?"

"Oh, hello."

"First Sherlock and now you. Seems like John's quite the man's man." She sighed.

Florence laughed. "Nice to meet you, uh..."

"Mary. My name's Mary."

"Florence." Florence glanced at the weeds growing from the barn's base, the sun shining down ontop his form. "Well Mary, could you tell them to put on the tea?"

"Uh, sure. But that might be a bit difficult at the moment. We're about to head our separate ways for the night."

Spitting could be heard, possibly from Sherlock spitting out blood.

Florence smiled through the line, his voice gentle. "That's no problem, but still tell them anyway. We'll talk a lot more when I get to see you I think." 

"Oh?" She sounded uncertain. 

"Yeah, seems like there's a lot that needs to be brought to light. Bye Mary, bye Sherlock. See you three soon." Florence smiled even though they couldn't see it before he hung up.

For once in his life, his hands were unsteady. 

_____

A day later, the cab arrived to the dark corner of Baker's Street, the flat almost in view curdious of the lit streetlamps. Florence tugged at his shirt to rid of the creases as soon as the cabbie pulled up to the curb.

He rushed out the car, using the key he already pulled out to open the front door. Closing it behind him slowly, he shimmied his way up the stairs as quietly as he could and into the lit stairwell of 221b. 

Immediately his eyes fell upon the blonde woman that sat in John's chair. She was drinking tea as John sat across from her. Florence cleared his throat and they turned their heads to him.

"Mind if I have a cup?"

Mustached John arose from the chair, looking grayer, but absolutely fuming. 

"Were you in on it?" Florence has not seen John this stern before, and quite frankly, it was a bit of a thrill. "Did you know about all of this?"

"Hi John."

"It is really, really, funny that you were gone this entire time. That you extended your little freebird holiday. Did you know that this was to happen?"

"John, he had no part!" Sherlock shouted from the couch, still sounding stuffed up. "Out of all who knew, he didn't." 

"You shut up!" John pointed at the injured man, spitting his poison, "I've had enough lies."

Sherlock scoffed but said nothing. 

"You said you wanted tea?" Mary said to Florence. 

He noticed her smile was so kind and it made her look younger. She had nice skin, and her body language was non-threatening enough. She was fashionable enough, too. Her short blonde hair was tucked behind her ears, her blue eyes nice to look at. Her lips were painted pink, matching the thin bracelet she dawned, a contrast to her dark jeans and flats. She wore a nice blue sweater, though it was hers.

He nodded, "Yes, thank you."

And so, Florence joined Sherlock by his on the couch, teacup in hand. He felt like he was back at his granny's, John reminding him of his grandfather with that mustache and all the screaming. It was funny how much John has grown in the two and a half years he hasn't seen him.

John was fuming, "It's been three years!"

Florence only sipped at his tea, staring at the man.

"Do you know what kind of toll it takes when someone just drops you one day? Like did any of it ever matter? Do you know lonely that is? You two left and I had no one to..." John took a breath then lightly stomped his foot, "For hell's sake I had to clean out your freezer because it was rotting!"

"John." Florence sighed. 

"Oh you don't get to 'John' me! I've had it with this - with you going out and then slaming your big fat head back in like you had no care in the world."

"John, please." Florence's voice was low, hair unfrilling from his loose ponytail as he looked down into his tea. "I'm a grown man. Besides, you've got Mary now."

John stood there in a huff glaring at the man. He glanced to Mary to see her giggling to herself quietly over her cup. 

"What's so funny?" John asked. 

"Nothing." She said as she sipped on her tea.

John looked back to the couch, Florence fidgeting with the cup and Sherlock was facing his back to him. John looked to Florence once more. Was his hair always that long? His skin was darker, and there were a lot of little sun freckles scattered against the huntsman's hands and face. Did he go some place sunny or did he always look like that? John couldn't tell, it's been too long.

"I didn't know you still wore my clothes." Florence said, his voice meek.

John snapped his attention to the man. "What?"

"That's my shirt. I could tell because I wore that to gut the moose." 

"Bloodstains," Sherlock looked back over his shoulder, "The sleeves are stained darker, so is the majority of the front."

"Moose?" Mary asked and Florence immediately turned to her.

"Has John not told you about the moose?" Mary shook her head and Florence stuck his tongue out in playful disgust. "This man! Yelling at me when he hasn't even told you about the moose!"

"I'm right here!"

"I bet he hasn't even told her about the antler." Sherlock said from the couch.

"The antler?" Mary put down her tea. "John, you have an antler?"

John was sputtering to himself now, "I thought that you'd like the privacy? Seeing as it was a Christmas present with your heart written on the back."

Florence caught his breath, his glance quickly thrown to Mary, "I thought you'd enjoy the sentiment."

"Can you please put down the elephant in the room!" Sherlock nudged Florence's side with his sockless feet.

"Uh. You, uh..." Florence rested his hand on Sherlock's leg. "Mary's right there. She has to live with him."

Sherlock sat upright in a huff. "I have to live with it too!"

"Live with what?" John was so confused. 

"Shave the thing off please!" Sherlock shouted.

"The mustache, it really isn't doing it for you, mate." Florence tucked his loose strands of hair out of his face. 

"What? Mary likes it."

"She doesn't. " Sherlock droned.

"You look like an old man." 

"They do have a point." Mary said lighthearted.

"You told me you liked it." John accused. 

"I told you I didn't mind it." Mary corrected. "When it was a stubble."

Florence chuckled, throwing his elbow out and poking Sherlock with it. Under his breath he said, "They really are a couple."

"Weren't you two supposed to be one?" Sherlock whispered back.

Florence shoved Sherlock lightly, shaking his head. He turned to the couple who were deep in bickering conversation, but ended once Mary reached her hand and held John's. 

In the lull of cinversation, she turned to Florence, "So how do you know these two?"

"I'm renting the flat downstairs. 221C." Florence shrugged, eyes locked with her, "Just a neighbor."

Mary smiled, a little bit of challenge in her eyes. "Must be hell." 

"It just the first circle." Florence moved his hair out of his face, the new tattoo of all the bones in his hand and wrist in full show. "No big deal."

John's face echoed a confusion while Mary took the man in. She deemed him handsome enough, only above average in his looks, she'd say. Though, there was this nagging feeling about him.

Florence stood, his teacup forgotten on the coffee table. He adjusted himself, "Well, I think I better be getting back to my limbo."

Sherlock cocked his eyebrow, "Going so soon?"

"Yes, I think it's time I see the old place." Florence said, exhaling. He went past John, ignoring his eyes, as he stood infront of Mary. "It's wonderful to meet you, though I don't think we'll be seeing much of eachother."

She shook hands with him once before he let her hand go. "I'd like to know more about you. I'm sure you have some stories."

"Not ones you'd like, I'm afraid." Florence gave a smile. 

Mary gave him a look as he escaped the flat, leaving the three behind.


	5. Struggle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where the alcoholism kicks in lads.   
> Also funny show write in haha emotional whump time next chapter bet your britches im going to forget.

About three days later and Mrs. Hudson screamed, alerting Sherlock and Mycroft who were in conversation while playing operation, causing Mycroft to fudge his turn. A silence passed, and a crash was heard after.

Sherlock stood immediately alert, mumbling, "That's cause for concern."

He went to the open door, hearing the squealing of Mrs. Hudson. She probably just found out that Florence was here. Sherlock was caught in surprise at Florence trudging up the stairs in his deep blue tidy whities, an angry Mrs. Hudson after him. The bear blanket that he held in clutch was his only cover as the old woman chased him into Sherlock's flat. 

The blond dove behind Sherlock, pressing himself to his back and interlocking his hand around the detective's waist, using him as a human shield. Sherlock gasped as he was picked up for easy maneuvering, surprised at how easy this was for his neighbor to do. The blanket was held between their bodies, still draping over Florence like a cloak.

"Gone for that long! What were you thinking!" She berated after the huntsman.

"Please put me down!" Sherlock pleaded, struggling to release himself. 

"I payed you!" The blond payed no attention to the detective.

"My poor old heart thought you left! Forever! Nobody knew where you went!"

Light as a feather, he dodged the swings of the slipper she grabbed from the mud room. Poor Sherlock got one or two whaps in from the woman.

"Now this, this is bizarre." Mycroft said, pointing with his cane.

"For the love of-" Sherlock tried to roll out of the man's arms, but alas his momentum was not enough for the strong arms of his neighbor. "Drop me!"

Florence eventually caught sight of the Holmes brother, stopping in his tracks. Mrs. Hudson seized the moment and wacked the blond against his head. 

"Aren't we one to play games, Sherlock?" Mycroft said, uncomfortable with the sight of his brother so comfortably in another man's arms. It wasn't like him to be touched.

Florence released Sherlock, only for him to clutch unto the blanket he dawned. His toes curled in embarrassment.

"Sorry, didn't know you had company." His voice was an octive or two lower than usual.

Sherlock straightened himself out, "Don't worry, he's nobody important. We were playing board games." 

"Mycroft Holmes." Myscroft said as he eyed the hunter. "You are?"

"Florence Ingram. I live downstairs. Apologies for the clothes. Or lack thereof." Eye contact was strong, voice weak. Very embarrassed, very uncomfortable, Mycroft noticed. "I'll see myself out. See you."

And out the door Florence went, barely any noise as he flew down the stairs to his flat.

A pause, then the carry on.

"How come I wasn't aware of this neighbor of yours," Mycroft had a bit of intrigue in his tone.

"Hardly a neighbor." Mrs. Hudson grabbed for the detective, now bringing in the tea set she was originally out for. "He's barely ever here. Gone out on hunting trips and the sort."

"No, not hardly. He gave me that." Sherlock pointed to the skull hanging upon the wall, made of bone, the antlers intricatel in every way. 

"My, how appealing." Mycroft readjusted his stance. "Seems like you're swimming with a variety of fish."

\---

A week later, and Molly has been coming around a lot more. Or this was an out of the blue thing. Florence couldn't tell, all he knew was that he was drinking and decided to do laundry. Alone. His laundry, nobody else's. His clothes, his property, his possessions. This personal space was refreshing. 

Florence ran into Molly on his way out from the laundry room, his basket of his clean clothes in his drunken possession. They bumped into eachother accidentally due to his uncoordinated control. Only a pair of socks fell out of the basket, to which Florence put down the basket to bend down and pick them up, almost falling over. It was rather embarrassing for the man.

Molly was surprised at how horrible he looked. His hair a complete mess of frizzled clumps, his face pale, nose flushed and his eyes sunken. His clothing was wrinkled, but mainly dishevelled like he'd been wearing them for a few days. He had a sock on, and that sock had a hole in where his big toe was at.

"You look horrible." She couldn't catch the words in time, them spilling out if her mouth.

Florence did a once over on her, only to smile. "And.. you. You look nice. Y'know you always do."

The stench of pure alcohol finally dawned on Molly once he opened his mouth.

"Have you been drinking?" She looked to him again and spotted the new tattoo on his hand, the black ink very accurate to his hand. "You got a tattoo?"

"I think, yeah. What a mess." He swallowed, his dry mouth not helping his thrist. "You want a drink before you go up or..."

"Oh, no thanks." Molly smiled small, inching closer to the stairs. "I'm better without it. Sorry."

"Ah alright then." Florence turned from her and slugged back into his appartment. "Have a good one."

Molly shook the encounter off and went upstairs to where Sherlock awaits.

Her footsteps were a bit loud for her liking in the silent building, but she went to the open door anyways. 

She didn't want to be here, knowing what she had back at home, but here she was. All because of a stupid little crush on the now not dead Sherlock Holmes: Professional sociopath. 

It was stupid. This was stupid. He was stupid. 

But maybe, maybe, there was a little hope that he was coming around to her. Molly knew she couldn't.

Just for today, Molly told herself. Just for today.

"You wanted to see me?"

Sherlock turned from the window to face her. "Yes. I did."

Molly glanced behind her, only to motion meekly with her tumb over her shoulder, "Your neighbor's a mess."

Sherlock smiled a little at the compassion and the attempt to start this conversation. "Molly?"

"Yes." Her heart raised in her chest, her throat catching it in desperate hopes to quell the feelings.

"Would you..." Sherlock paused, not sure if she would be up to this. He took a step forward. 

"Would you like to solve crimes?"  
"Have dinner?"

There was an awkward pause. 

Molly had pursued her heart's rhythm, only to make a fool of herself. But if Sherlock would have suggested dinner, she could have and would have turned it down. She didn't know why she was still so very stupid around him. Maybe it's because he was gone so long? She still sees him as her type, she does, and she won't admit anything else.

Maybe its his looks, maybe its his personality, maybe a combination of the two, she wouldn't know. Molly only knew she was attracted to this man for many different reasons, and that any other man she knew she had a chance with had to have some aspect of Sherlock to them. It was stupid, so stupid, but alas her heart wouldn't listen to her.

Sherlock didn't tend to her heart's whims, and he knew that. She was his friend, and he was hers. So he gave her a little head tilt with an obviously unamused look. It wasn't mean, it was just showing that he wasn't interested.

Molly laughed it off slightly before the conversation went on.

...

Florence had to get out of the flat, he just had to. Dawning his feather stuffed overcoat and slipping on his dark, sole-worn shoes, he left. It quickly became cold from the last time he went out, as the air bit at his ankles. It felt nice breathing in that cold air. Florence supposed it would snow tonight, only a flurry. Not enough to stick. 

He passed a park, a small crowd gathered round a pile of old furniture and pine cuttings. He looked through the fences at the pile, standing there and clutching at the bars. Regret picked at his thoughts, strange to pop up now. It was irritating. He focused on the tattoo that dawned on his hand, that pure black boldly covering his hand. 

He let go of the bars, tucking his hands in his pockets and then walking off. Silent memories followed him, sticking around like a tiny chick to its mother.

Before he knew it, he had gone out and bought several bottles of liquor. The empty streets awoken a space of solitude. Away from the flat, away from the business of Mrs.Hudson's shop. Thankfully, the 24 hour store was not too far away from the flat, he noted once he circled back. Florence went in and came out with a full layered paper bag. Vodka, tequila, rum, gin, whiskey. They all clinked together as he walked, the weight of the bag nicely bunkering him to the cold night. 

Why was he out here? Florence wondered this to himself at a crossroad, the light still holding up its orange hand in caution. He looked around, seeing the street bare. He was the only one out here, the pubs closed, the traffic quelled, and the lights were yellowish as always. They should replace them soon. 

He shifted the bag to his right arm, using his left to grab and unscrew the whiskey bottle. It had that cheap burn to it when he swigged it down, too distant to care. It's not like he's a public disturbance, unless the little white guy on the crossroad light counted.

Florence almost ran across the empty street, only to realize that he didn't need to hurry. 

He swigged on the whiskey when at the other end of the crosswalk, closing it after. 

Making his way back to his flat, his feet drug as he hauled the now too-heavy bag onto his kitchen counter. How long was he gone for? He didn't know. He hoped he didn't wake his neighbors with the dropping of his keys at the door, or the consequently abandoned decency when he swung his door open. 

Florence flung his shoes off in some direction, hearing one of them hit a painting, the swish swish haulting of it telling him that he needed to fix it in the morning. But for now, in reality, Florence really needed to do something, to keep his mind off of... What did he need to keep his mind off of again? 

He clung to the whiskey bottle, curled up on the couch warm in his jacket, head hazy enough to keep him busy for what was left of the night.   
...

The morning, or was it afternoon? It didn't matter, with that tinge in his head. The swishing of his coat made it worse, and he immediately shed the thing. The rumbling of the stairs as people trudged up and down and up and then down again was always faint. But right now, it was annoying. 

Florence sat up, immediately dizzy. He planted his feet on the floor and folded over, his head resting on his coffee table. He spotted the rouge whiskey bottle under the table some way, rolling his eyes as he saw that it was half empty. 

There was a knocking at the door, as Mrs. Hudson made herself present. 

"Florence, dear? You here?" Her voice was too sweet, like it was giving his brain a toothache. 

Florence could only groan, which made Mrs. Hudson open the door.

"You should really lock your doors at night." She said, shuffling in. "Oh my."

She looked around the flat, the living room messy and the stench of alcohol was strong. His usual exotic scent was thrown off. A few of the paintings hung up were knocked astray. The space itself was cluttered with old wrappers in little piles. Blankets and clothes were strewn around with the care of a rabid baboon. 

Mrs. Hudson frowned at the figure bent over, "I expected this place to be better, Florence."

"Shh sh sh." Florence shrugged off the table and sat up, his sunken features hidden behind a curtain of curls. "I had a late night."

There was spit-up on his shirt and Mrs. Hudson covered her heart with her hand. She waited for an explanation for this pigsty. But there was none. She expected something to fly out of his mouth but nothing did. She went to sit down on the pillow-filled armchair. She leaned against the arm of it, scared to touch anything.

"Do you want to talk about it?" She tried. 

"About what?" 

"This. You. It's clear that there is something wrong if you're sitting in this mess."

"Don't worry, I'm just busy." That was a lie. 

He hadn't back to his job at the market in the time he'd gotten back. He has enough money from his business ventures overseas that he could technically retire now if he wanted to. His hunting has gotten a lot of his earnings, along with a few little one-time odd jobs. Besides, he'd saved as much of his military earnings as he possibly could. 

"If you're sure." Mrs. Hudson stood, dusting off her bottom. She went to leave. "Make sure you clean up this mess after you eat something."

She left Florence on the couch, alone in his basement flat.

"Right."

•.•.•.•.•

Weeks later, weeks and weeks later.

It is May. 

Spring. 

That means Mary and John will have a union. Mary invites her friends, John invites his, only the good onces know eachother. The other's are in contact with the bride and groom only. 

For some, people will meet eachother, for others, this is probably the last time these people will ever see eachother. 

It pains him to see this.

The flat had many clients show for the past month, right up until the wedding. Florence had to pull out his speaker a few times to ignore the interior traffic.

They came calmly, all of them did. Most of them, though, had left in a hurry.

Sherlock had probably scared them off. 

Florence had cleaned his apartment, fully, and reorganized his furniture. Made it more flowy, he guessed. It was easier for him to maneuver. He'd also put up the reminder of clothes into their proper places, all neat and tucked away.

Fresh off the street, groceries in hand, he bounded his way into the hall. Florence refused to make two trips, even if he lived on ground level. His hair would frizz from the humidity. It was a surprise to see the detective sitting on his couch when he came through the door, groceries in tow.

"Love what you've done with the place," Sherlock said, hands feeling around on the couch. "You should really lock your door."

"I think," Florence said, putting down the food on the kitchen floor, "I'm safe here."

"While you were gone, before I... died, there was this man called Moriarty. He broke into your flat, well more like waltzed in, and left something important to our case at the time." Sherlock spouted out as Florence put away groceries. "He said that it was quite strange to have a man living around us that, he didn't know, so confident in his security to leave his door and windows unlocked in the midst of London."

"I don't have anything of particular worth here other than a gun or knife." Florence said as he stuffed the veggies in the crisper. He stood suddenly, looking to Sherlock with a wild look in his eyes. "Why are you here? You're never here."

"I thought I'd pop by and give you an invite." Sherlock plucked an envelope from his pocket, placing it onto the table.

Florence floated on over, taking the invitation in his own hands.

"Wear something that'll match that." The detective pointed to his hand.

Surprised, Florence muttered, "They want... At their wedding?"

"Yes, I suppose you and John are friends. Besides Mary suggested to invite you, and she even put you on her side of the guest list."

"We barely know eachother." Florence became dumb as Sherlock stood. "Why?"

"She'd like to get to know you."

"At her wedding?"

"Colors are spring themed, and... Actually all of it is there on the invitation. It'll make this day at least a little more bearable if you come." Sherlock's words were regurgitated once more, Florence having a nightmare of a time understanding. 

He couldn't ask questions, Sherlock was too fast for him. He left Florence in the dust, alone in his aromic flat to decide if the wedding was a good idea.


	6. Unions and Mingling and Old Fucks Too I Guess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay maybe not SOO whump because Florence gets to see his (impromptu written in) "project" pal James, but he is pregamed and drunk. he has no filter, you cant stop him. 
> 
> maybe they kiss, maybe they dont. read it read it read it.
> 
> also bonding time for the two 221 neighbors.

The reception was full swing, the brightly colored paint engulfing the joyous atmosphere. The hall was tall, the white trimmed windows were tall, the doors were tall, which allowed the conversations by the many guests to reverberate up and into a conglomerated mass of emotion. It was beautifully overwhelming. 

But let's zoom in on the lovely couple currently enthralled in their own conversation.

Mary was dressed in her cream gown, the top textured and dipped across her chest with lace edging, while the bottom was draped down over her waist. Her hair was ticked behind her ears, curled, and adorned by a veil which was embedded with fake apple blossoms on the headband. She dawned stud earing and her makeup made her look sweet, which really topped off her heavenly bride look. John thought she was beautiful, she was beautiful. His beautiful wife.

John was dressed in a white dress-shirt, a cream vest, a cream tie that matched Mary's dress, and navy blue pressed pants. His socks were a deep purple, cross patterned. His navy blue suit jacket wore a flower broach right above his left, purple handkerchief stuffed pocket. His black shoes were shined, and glistened in the sun. Mary thought he was handsome, he was handsome. Her handsome husband. 

"So, Harry?" Mary placed her hand onto John's shoulder, catching his nervous gaze.

John and Mary faced eachother, although John was still scouting around the guests, "Uh, no, no show."

"Darling, I'm so sorry." Mary sighed in dismay. 

John was assuring though, "Yeah, it was a bit of a punt asking, I suppose. Still, free bar, wouldn't have been a good mix."

They held a smile in solidarity before John locked onto someone. 

"Oh. God, wow." John was in disbelief, joy sprawling more throughout him.

Mary glanced to where he was looking, very surprised. 

James walked in through the open doors that led to the lawn, dressed in his formal uniform. The colors went wonderfully well with the aesthetic of the wedding all thing considered. His posture high and stiff, his blue eyes searching through the guests to hopefully find familiar faces. 

Mary gasped, "Is that..."

John plastered a smile onto his face in relief, "He came."

Mary smiled at the event.

James continued to survey the hall until he felt someone approach, which he turned to see it was John. He relaxed in the slightest bit upon seeing the groom, happy to see him after all this time.

Once John reached him through the busy floor, they stopped and saluted one another. Business casual. Friendly and friendly.

Sherlock creeped up behind Mary, falling into place beside her. He wore an suit similar to John's, actually it was the same kind of suit except it was a black instead.

"So that's him. Major Sholto."

Mary looked to him in surprise, only to look back to the priceless interaction, "Uh-huh."

"If they're such good friends, why does he barely even mention him?" Sherlock was suspicious of the military Major.

"He mentions him all the time to me. Never shuts up about him." Mary took a drink of her white wine.

"About him?" Sherlock pushed.

"Mhm." Mary swallowed her wine with disgust. "Ugh, I chose this wine. It's bloody awful."

"Yes, but it's definitely him that he talks about?" Sherlock was jealous of this man.

Mary still confirmed it while looking into her wine glass.

"I'm very, very glad to see you, sir." John smiled at his superior. "I know you don't really do this sort of thing."

"Well, I do for old friends, Watson." James paused, only to correct himself with a small smile. "John."

John widened his smile.

"It's good to see you."

"You too."

The major looked around, facing away from Sherlock and Mary's gaze, "Civilian life suiting you, then?"

John turned and nodded to Mary, and effectively the rest of the hall. "Er, yes, well, I think so, sir."

"No more need for the trick cyclist?"

"No, I go now and then. Sort of a top-up." There was a pause as they made eye contact. John glanced down to his shoes, "Therapy can be very helpful."

James nodded and looked away, towards John's right.

John picked up the ball. "Where are you living these days?" 

James took a breath, "Oh, way out in the middle of nowhere. You wouldn't know it." He gave a head nod.

"You look well."

James gave a nod, glancing back to John's right, eyes landing on another familiar face... "Yes I suppose so."

"I've never even heard him say his name." Sherlock was now in a minor tizzy, Mary trying to explain to him things she's heard.

"Well, he's almost a recluse. You know, since..."

"Yes." Sherlock nodded. "Reminds me of someone nowadays."

"I didn't think he'd show up at all. John says he's the most unsociable man he's ever met."

"He is?" Sherlock was going crazy, "He's the most unsociable?"

Mary took another sip of her terrible white wine. Was it just her?

"Ah, that's why he's bouncing around him like a puppy."

Mary snorted at the man beside her, thoroughly amused at this childish act, "Oh Sherlock. Neither of us were the first, you know."

"Stop smiling." Sherlock teased since he was caught.

"It's my wedding day." Mary giggled, letting him go off somewhere else.

Mary really doesn't like the wine she chose.

In his absence, Florence had time to scoot up next to Mary. His suit was dark charcoal. He wore a purple tie with his pastel purple shirt and cream vest. His dress shoes shoes were black, and he slotted a small sunflower pin onto his suit, which gleamed with the light. His socks were cream, to have a bit of color coordination. 

"I'm glad you have this." He said, smiling. His cheeks were close to flushed as he stood so cautious about his demeanor. 

Mary looked to him, meeting his brown eyes in surprise. "You came."

"Yeah, sorry. I panicked and came late." Florence clasped his hands together, fidgeting with them.

"I did invite you." Mary said, a soft smile crossing her features as she looked to the pair in conversation. "You don't have to be so stiff."

"Yeah, but, since we don't know each other, I assumed..." Florence pulled his lips to a firm line and then followed where she was looking, spotting John talking to Major Sholto. James. His features softened immediately. 

"James came?" Florence pulled himself to stand a little taller.

"You know him?" Mary raised an eyebrow.

"A long time ago, yes." Florence saw that the Major looked his way and smiled, which he returned. "We were involved with some projects. I'm surprised he's out and about."

Mary wanted to get out of this quell. "I'm sure you have some stories, hmm?"

Florence reeled in his attention to Mary, smiling brightly. "I do, but I hope you're not apposed to a little viscera at a wedding."

John looked over to see where the Major smiled, and saw that he was looking at Florence. 

"You know him?" John asked, quite surprised. 

James tilted his head so-so, a small smile gracing his lips, "Before, Ingram and I were involved in some projects together."

John felt his jaw go slack, looking back towards Florence wildly. "Really? Do you two still keep in touch?"

"In contact, yes." He hummed. "Though, we haven't seen each other in quite some time."

"Let's go say hi." John suggested. "I'm sure he would be glad to see an old friend."

James nodded. He and John scooted through the hall and towards Florence and Mary. Florence was making Mary gasp with laughter, and she was trying to hide her smile behind her hand.

Florence was in the midst of telling Mary some story, "-Because it was so sticky, which he couldn't figure how to work right and ended up powerwashing flesh away which made it smell so bad."

"Did it even get it out?" Mary was fully amused. 

"It made the ordeal even worse. The carpet was stained! We had to scrub at it all night to get it out before..." Florence snorted while Mary pretended to gag, which then she laughed.

John was bewildered at the interaction. Florence caught sight of the two and met John in his eyes. 

John knew the feelings were there yet he didn't look away, didn't shy away from them. Florence had to, which he did moments later, with a nod. An apology? Forgiveness? All John knew was that it was a positive look.

Florence then looked to Major Sholto, all did up in his formalities. Still so guilt ridden, but oh how he rides. To himself and all that. It has been a while. He stood to attention and saluted which, of course, James gave a spring copy. There was enthusiasm there, something that made John oogle between the two men. 

James seemed to loosen up again, more than when he initially did with John, his demeanor now bubbly if anything. Boy, did John feel jealous. 

"Hey you." Florence smiled, offering his hand.

"Lorie." James took it, but then pulled Florence close into a short hug, or as much of a hug he could with one arm. 

John pitted quietly, quickly, in his head. It was that damn nickname again. What did it mean?

Pulling away, a gentle smile on his lips, James muttered, "You smell the same." 

Florence dipped his gaze down, ears pink, as he gazed upon the Major's uniform with memories flinging to his mind. Florence dipped away, facing surprised John and Mary.

"Congratulations. Sorry for missing the ceremony." Florence nodded, words caught, "It's been..."

"You're here now. That's all that matters." John said, Mary nodding after him.

"Right," Florence looked to James before the rest of the hall. "Better go mingle."

"By all means." Mary smiled as he walked off, trailing through the busy traffic path. She noticed his stumble in his movements, chuckling to herself.

She turned to the Major, a knowing look gracing her features. "So you and him..."

Sholto dragged his eyes away from the bumbling man in the crowd and to the Bride, a soft blushing look upon his own face, "Just projects."

• •

Archie went up to him at some point, when he was sitting in his name tagged seat. The plates folded infront of him, the small boxes placed indiscreetly. It was nice.

The kid went up to him and started talking about all sorts of things, but especially about his drink. 

What was really is that the kid was trying to con Florence out of his spiked kiddie drink in his wine glass by using blackmail. It wasn't concrete, but it was solid. Archie, the kid, told him if he, Florence, an adult, wouldn't give him a sip of his drink he would tell his mom that he, the adult, had alcohol in a metal tin in his jacket pocket. Seemed fair, right?

Florence really didn't want to give the kid a sip but he didn't want to have an ordeal with his mother about him bringing his own stuff. So, like a sane adult, he got up and walked away.

But the kid didn't stop, he actually latched onto his leg and wouldn't leg go. Florence walked normally, trying not to make a big deal about it, across the hall's floor, and to Archie's mother, who was conversing with a group that she didn't know exactly. 

Florence tapped her on her shoulder and she looked surprised. 

"Excuse me, is this your kid?" Florence asked, pointing to his leg, to which she slowly looked down to see, indeed, her kid cling to this stranger.

"Archie!" She gasped, "What are you doing?"

"He wouldn't give me his juice and it was the last one." The kid was monotone.

Florence leaned in to the mother, whispering, "I spiked it and didn't want to give any to the kid. I'm sorry about this."

"Is that right." She nodded in understanding, kinda laughing. "Archie, get off the poor man."

Archie slipped from his leg and up onto his feet, grumbling to himself. 

Florence dug into his pocket inside his jacket and pulled out a fidget toy, holding it in his closed hand.

"Hey Archie, I got something for you." Florence said with his arm out.

He looked up to his hand and held out his. The huntsman but the fidget toy into his small hands and stood right again.

"What is it?" Archie asked.

"Something for you to play with to keep you out of trouble." Florence shrugged, walking off.

He heard a thanks as he headed back to his seat.

"You're good with kids." Lestrade said, sitting down next down to the man.

Florence sipped on his juice he'd left behind. "I'm drunk."

Lestrade chuckled but Florence looked at him, face straight as can be.

"I'm serious, Greg." Florence leaned back in his chair. "I am so drunk."

"You pregamed a wedding?" Greg asked, his voice low. "Did you drive here?"

"Not exactly a lightweight, so I had to if I was going to make it. I took a fare." Florence downed his drink swiftly, the burn of gin going down. "Remember Christmas?"

"You drank like two entire bottles." Lestrade shot a look to the blond. "You have any of the good stuff?"

Florence smiled and dug his hand into his coat, the canteen half full. He passed it to Lestrade, who then took a swig, passing it back.

"Tastes like you got it from the super store." Greg said.

"Corner store, but yeah." Florence took a swig and tucked the canteen back into his pocket. "Gets the job so finished."

They sat there, listening to the chatter around them. Florence sat there and thought about the juice he nabbed from the kitchens, completely for his own needs. Alcohol. Greg sat there and thought of what he was going to say next to this man who zoned out right next to him.

"Do you..." Greg started, getting a response from Florence, "...have any women in your life?" 

Florence sat up and leaned onto the table, facing the policeman. "Romantically? No. Platonically, absolutely. All the ladies." He hooked his index fingers together, "We're like this. Allies in power."

Lestrade nudged on. "Not a single woman?"

"Rarely," Florence ticked his feet underneath his chair to sit up. He leaned onto his knees with his elbows. "But usually, no. Not usually into that kind of thing."

Greg bit his cheek, mind finally clicking. "Oh, so you're gay?"

"If that's what you want to call it." Florence sat back into his chair. "Usually am."

"Okay. Good. Um," Lestrade shifted. "You have a man in your life?"

"There's an old fling or two, here, at the wedding." Florence gazed around the room, then looked at Lestrade, "But no, not anyone permanent. Not currently."

Greg nodded. "My wife and I are, uh, divorced. Currently going through a divorce. She was great until someone pointed out that she was cheating."

"Right." Florence said. "Condolencems."

"It's fine, there's no need." Lestrade smiled, "Besides today's about unions."

Florence smiled, "God loves those."

"Speaking of flings," Greg said, picking off a glass from a waiter's tray. "Have you talked to Molly yet?"

Florence shook his head. 

"Well she brought a date. His name's Tom." Lestrade paraded his glass about in the air towards the couple. "He's a nice young fellow, but the bloke looks just like Sherlock."

"No way." Florence's eyes widened.

Lestrade chuckled. "I couldn't believe it either."

"I have to meet him," Florence's attitude came out of its low bow, a stupid smile now spread on his face.

"They're right over there." Lestrade pointed again in their direction.

Florence stumbled with a step, stopping immediately, turning suddenly to the cop.

"You're gonna have to lead me," Florence said, grabbing onto Greg's wrist, yanking him out of his chair. "I am a public disturbance and I need an officer to help me."

Greg chuckled, "Well, then. This beats waiting around."

They linked arms and Florence immediately leant into him as they walked to the new couple. 

Florence spotted Molly in her bright yellow snogging all up on the Sherlock double and began giggling into Greg's shoulder. 

"Oh my god!" Florence snorted as they arrived to the two. 

Molly grabbed the charcoal from the side of her eye and relaxed on her giving of love. Tom took a nervous breath at the approaching people, a dopey smile on his face. 

Molly nervously smiled at the state Florence was in, hanging off Greg, giggling his head off. 

"Is he?" She pointed to the nicely dressed man.

Lestrade nodded. "Absolutely hammered." 

Florence managed to suppress his laughter as he straighten himself up as much as possible in his inebriated state. 

"Molly!" His tone was soft and he extended his hand to her. 

She lightly took it, "Hello Florence."

"Is this the lad I've heard about?" Florence pointed to Tom while facing Molly. He leant in to whisper in her ear, "You're happy, right?" before leaning out with a trailing of Ssss. He managed to repress the urge to say 'settling.'

"Of course. He's so nice." Molly turned her head to Tom, motioning to the drunk man. "Tom, this is Florence. He's a friend. Florence," She turned back to the man, "This is Tom. My fiancé."

Florence took Tom's outstretched hand, shaking it. "Love the hair."

"I like yours too," Tom smiled and nodded, releasing the pink-cheeked man's grip. "How'd you meet Molly?"

"Christmas party." Florence grasped onto Lestrade's arm for balance, "You?"

"Just through friends at a little get together." He said.

"She's a dear." Florence smiled, "I'm glad you two have eachother."

"Thank you." Tom nodded and a blushy smile.

"Now, Molly. Sorry for cutting this short, it was nice to see you." Florence beamed to the yellow clad woman. "I have to go sit down before I fall over."

"How'd you get so blitzed anyway?" Molly asked.

Florence just tapped his handkerchief pocket with a wink, the metal making a small tinking sound. 

Lestrade led them off across the room once again.

° ° °

The food was wonderful. Nicely prepared and smelt godlike. They did a great job picking the meals.

It was time for the best man's speech. Sherlock's speech. 

How was he going to bare through this?

By not bearing at all. He kept snagging the more to be desired wine from servers when they came by to replace glasses during the 3 course meal.

Florence caught himself by feeling his neck mid way through his 6th glass. He glanced up around him, the guests at his table utterly unrecognizable. Through drunken eyes, the faces of these guests too hard to focus on.

Though, he could see Major Sholto take off his beret, setting it down on the table. He saw the subtle glance of the major thrown back at him. Florence could see Mary and John, and Sherlock now standing.

When did he stand? Florence heard the jibberish flow from Sherlock's mouth, too fast and clear for him to understand. He could tell that the detective was pausing for long moments and then re-entering his speech. 

Was Sherlock Holmes nervous? Florence smiles when the rumble of the audience sounded positive. There was an applause, to which he participated to gently, eyes wandering from the front of the hall, from the couple, from Sherlock. 

He grabbed the small gift box on the table, open from the dinner. He picked at the thing until the unbridled shock of the hall's crowd pulled him from his zone. Florence quickly looked up from the table to see Sherlock walk down the isle, pacing, his words slower, better to hear.

"Part two is a bit more action-based. I'm gonna... walk around, shake things up a bit." 

Florence brought his attention back around and tried to stay in the loop.

Sherlock continued, "Who’d go to a wedding? That’s the question. Who would bother to go to any lengths to get themselves to a wedding?" 

Two thirds of the way down the isle, right next to Florence's row, he turned around.

"Well, everyone." Sherlock clapped his hands once. "Weddings are great! Love a wedding."

Florence was concerned, glancing around to the crowd around him. Lest be unaware about the ones he knows about. He saw Molly, sitting with Lestrade at a near-front table, Mrs. Hudson at another front table. They were all concerned. 

Sherlock yapped on, something about peas and John and how he's the greatest. 

Florence snapped his head to the detective on the word.

"Murder." Sherlock paused, gauging the transitional value. 

Florence immediately put his head in his hands due to the inappropriate nature of his whole speech. He wasn't prepared, a drunk could point it out. Then again, this did seem all too impromptu to even have an inkling of planning. 

"Sorry, did I say 'murder'? I meant to say 'marriage' - but, you know, they're quite similar procedures when you think about it. The participants tend to know each other, and it's over when one of them's dead." The d at the end of the word accentuated. Sherlock paused.

"In fairness, murder is a lot quicker, though. Janine!" Sherlock called.

Florence looked to who would've responded, to which was the bridesmaid at the front table. She looked at Sherlock a little wide-eyed.

Sherlock walked over to one of the male guests, motioning to him with his hands. "What about this one? Acceptably hot?" He grins at Janine, only to call his attention to the woman next to the male guest of his choosing. 

"More importantly, his girlfriend’s wearing brand-new uncomfortable underwear ... and hasn’t bothered to pick this thread off the top of his jacket ... or point out the grease smudge on the back of his neck. Currently, he’s going home alone."

From where he was sitting, Florence spotted Sherlock, his phone behind his back, his thumb typing rapidly.

"Also, he’s a comics and sci-fi geek. They’re always tremendously grateful – really put the hours in." Sherlock added, chuckling.

And then boom, Sherlock shoots his look to Greg from across the room.

"Geoff, the gents." He jerked his head towards the door. "The loos, now, please."

"It’s Greg." Lestrade was displeased that he still couldn't get his name correct. 

Sherlock wasn't bothered, "The loos, please."

Greg's phone blips in his pocket, a text alert, and he reached into it to retrieve it. "Why?"

"Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s your turn." Sherlock jerked his head to the tall door again, very much grimacing. 

Greg looks at his phone and the new text message which reads: Lock this place down. Immediately alert, he stands up. "Yeah, actually, now you mention it ..."

Sherlock pockets his own phone as Lestrade hurried out of the reception hall. 

Florence contemplated going with him, actually needing to pee.

"Go with him." Sherlock said, turning around to survey the hall once more. "You're useful enough."

Florence stood to attention, his chair swiftly being knocked backwards as he chased after the scotland yard police out into the hallway. 

It was much more brown here, less light, more classical cozy in tone. Florence stumbles adjacent to the reception, fleeing the possibility of wetting himself. 

He enters the bathroom, sleek and clean. Very silver, the lights in grey coverings. Very nice compared to some public restrooms he'd come across. He went to a urinal, they had the half blockers, and did his business, surprisingly accurate for his state of inebriation. Zipping his trousers, he scuttled up to the sinks, washing his hands hurriedly. 

Once his hands were dried he walked back out only to see James hurry out of the hall and up the stairs towards the hotel part of the building. 

Florence, not wanting to go back to the reception, followed curiously behind. The stairs were a challenge, Florence almost skipping steps as he went up. He caught the end of the door closest to him closing, the clicks of it locking. Florence stood, his fingers lingering on the stair railing as he stared. Room 207.

"207!" He heard Mary shout, the thudding of three different sets of feet clattering up the starwell. 

Sherlock arrived first, immediately going to the door. John second, followed closely by Mary, her dress bunched in her hands so she needn't trip. 

Sherlock was rattling at the door, "Major Sholto? Major Sholto!"

"He's..." Florence started, his eyes glued to the door. "He's upset. What's going on?"

"If someone’s about to make an attempt on my life, it won’t be the first time. I’m ready." James could be heard through the door.

"Oh." Florence said under his breath.

John heads to the door and Sherlock gets out of his way. He rapped on the door with his knuckles. "Major, let us in."

"Kick the door down." Mary quietly suggested. 

"I really wouldn't. I have a gun and a lifetime of unfortunate reflexes." James said, a strain in his voice.

Florence took his hand off the railing as Sherlock took another go at the door.

"You’re not safe in there. Whoever’s after you, we know that a locked room doesn’t stop him."

“The invisible man with the invisible knife.” Sholto recited from Archie. That kid is an adorable menace. 

"I don’t know how he does it, so I can’t stop him, and that means he’ll do it again." Sherlock exhaled. 

Florence slowly came to the side of the door, Sherlock glancing at him once.

"Solve it, then." Sholto sternly demanded.

Sherlock had to take a moment to shake out his head, "I – I’m sorry?"

"You’re the famous Mr Holmes. Solve the case. On you go."

Sherlock straightened up, his eyes rapidly flickering from side to side.

"Tell me how he did it and I’ll open the door."

John steps forward again. "Please, this is no time for games. Just let us in! You’re in danger!"

"So are you, so long as you’re here."

Mary watches Sherlock as he paces back and forth across the landing for a bit, thinking. She looks to Florence who rapped on the door twice, a three second interval shoved in between. 

"Please, leave me." The major sounded almost pained. "Despite my reputation, I really don’t approve of collateral damage." 

He went cold with his words, presumably just waiting in there.

Mary turned to Sherlock, "Solve it."

Sherlock stops pacing and looks at her, confusion splattered on his face.

"Sorry?"

"Solve it, and he’ll open the door, like he said."

"If I couldn’t solve it before, how can I solve it now?" The doubt was heavy.

"Because it matters now." Mary raised her voice a tone.

"What are you talking about?" He looks to John. "What’s she talking about? Get your wife under control."

John nodded, "She’s right."

Sherlock took up a bewildered look this time, "Oh, you’ve changed!"

"No, she is!" He turns and points at him, the fire in his eyes burning. "Shut up. You are not a puzzle-solver – you never have been. You’re a drama queen."

Sherlock’s mouth drops open and he stares at him, true and utter disbelief. 

"Now, there is a man in there about to die. 'The game is on.'" John was louder, angrily pointing at the door. "Solve it!"

Sherlock scowled, scoffed even, but suddenly his eyes snapped into the back of his head. They closed soon after, his eyes wildly darting underneath them.

After less than a minute, Sherlock opened them, taking Mary's head into his hands. He kissed the top of it and let go, smiling. He points to john, "In all fairness, he's a drama queen too."

"I know," Mary said, earning a frown from her husband. 

Sherlock went to the door once again, announcing, "Major Sholto, no-one’s coming to kill you. I’m afraid you’ve already been killed several hours ago."

"What did you say?" Sholto's voice was uneven. 

"Don’t take off your belt." The detective demanded. 

"My belt?"

Sherlock turned around and talking to them. "His belt, yes. Bainbridge was stabbed hours before we even saw him, but it was through his belt." Sherlock mentioned to his own waist, "Tight belt, worn high on the waist. Very easy to push a small blade through the fabric and you wouldn’t even feel it."

John nodded his understanding. "The-the belt would bind the flesh together when it was tied tight ..."

"Exactly."

" ... and when you took it off ..."

"Delayed action stabbing. All the time in the world to create an alibi." Sherlock went and shook the still locked door again, "Major Sholto?"

"So – I was to be killed by my uniform. How appropriate." His voice was uterly defeated.

There was a rustling behind the door, in the quiet air. Florence stepped forward.

"James." Florence said, his voice raised and shaking. It was like a copper candleholder dropping to the floor. "Are you going to open the door?" 

There was a deep pause in the room.

"You kind of have to come out of there," Florence said, hoping he wasn't hurt. "Your words mean something, you know." 

Sholto's voice gave heavy relief, "I’m not even supposed to have this any more. They gave me special dispensation to keep it. I couldn’t imagine life out of this uniform. I suppose – given the circumstances – I don’t have to." 

"James," Florence tested.

A thunk could be heard from the door, those from outside were intensely listening. "When so many want you dead, it hardly seems good manners to argue."

"Whatever you’re doing in there, James, stop. Right now. I..." Florence threatened, his voice pleading as his death grip on the handle increased. "You haven't the right to refuse."

Florence could tell he took a deep breath, Sholto's voice a lot more airy, "Ingram. You and I are similar, I think."

"I'd like to think we are." Florence loosens his grip on the handle, his hand throbbing. "After all the time spent together." 

"There’s a proper time to die, isn’t there?" Called out the Major.

"Yes," Florence smiled, tears threatening. "Of course there is."

"And one should embrace it when it comes – like a soldier."

"Of course one should, with acceptance and utter relief. But not at a wedding. Not at John's wedding. We wouldn’t do that, would we – you and me? We wouldn't do that." Florence stood taller, slowly removing himself from the handle. "We wouldn't do that to John Watson."

He imagined Sholto closing his eyes, contemplating death right in his room. Hot tears streamed down his face as he imagined the Major, his hand on his belt, ready to remove it.

It hurts him. 

Florence thought about the time he saw the Major in his kitchen, gun on the oak breakfast table. His defeated look as he sat there crying in the sunrise that filrered through the window. 

The huntsman had brought over some goodies for his friend, thinking that he would just pop in for a visit. Instead he had found him contemplating in that rickety chair, the newspaper article cut out infront of him. The sunflowers were looking wilted, like they haven't been watered for a while. 

James only looked to him when he felt the touch of Florence's hand on his shoulder. Florence wasn't looking at him, instead his eyes intently on the gun, disgusted by it.

Florence took a step away from the door, eyes trained on it like it was that .45. John walks closer, leaning towards the door and listening for any sound from the room. He straightens up and takes off his jacket, exposing the cream vest.

"I’m gonna break it down." John says.

"No," Florence stops him, his arm out to block him from the door. "Just wait."

"Hmm?"

The door opens. Sholto glances to the side briefly, towards Sherlock. He then quickly catches Florence's intense stare, lowering his eyes to his feet in shame. 

Florence tries to catch his eyes, hoping he would meet his. He never saw those blues.

"I believe I am in need of medical attention." An awkward smile flashed on his face for a moment, unable to hold as his face blasted with pink.

John nodded, "I believe I am your doctor." 

The hunter floated behind the four, still sobering up. Sherlock lagged slightly, to catch up with Florence, who was quietly removing his sunflower pin. 

"You know him?" Sherlock whispered to the drunk.

He about jumped out his skin, the pin went flying onto the floor. Thankfully the back was connected. "What?"

Sherlock bent and plucked the pin up and into his hand, inspecting it. "Why a sunflower?"

Florence walked alongside the slightly taller detective, them total opposites at the moment. His longer curled, sandy blond hair pulled back, cheeks stained with pink and tears, his movements sluggish. Compared to the upstanding, brunette of a man, his curls loosely gelled into compliance with elegant and precise actions.

He thought about that morning, how he dragged grass clippings in through the house on his dew soaked shoes, how the sunflower's wilting petals were still that bright yellow.

"They..." Florence sighed, "Yellow. Yellow is a good color."

"It's his favorite flower, isn't it?" Sherlock stated.

The blond nodded, hands cramming themselves into his grey pant pockets. 

Sherlock held out the pin, to which Florence took gingerly, shoving it down into his pocket held in the ball of his hand.

"I went to see him. James." Florence said, voice quiet. "His house was drowning in them."

Sherlock looked to the three infront of them, staring at the back of the exposed head of the Major. 

"He was so gentle," Florence continued. "Barely touching any when he watered them. He's so scared of touch these days. Of anything living, anyways."

"So these projects you two have been doing?"

Florence bumped the detective's arm with his loose fist, "Euphemism."

"You and him?" Sherlock's face went a little sour.

"It wasn't all like that." Florence rolled his eyes, a smile escaping his lips despite the somber headspace. "We did have some personal agricultural studies... To help with trauma."

"Is that where you've been all this time?" Sherlock guessed. "You were living it up with a Major while we were away."

"Not necessarily, Mr. Holmes." Florence shrugged. "For a few months, yeah. But I've been busy putting my stake all around the Atlantic. Sight seeing."

"Vacation?" 

Florence nodded, but gave a cheeky smile, "I do like me a man in uniform."

"Please tell me that you're not going after Lestrade."

"Oh please, you know the Scotland Yard's mostly casual."

"That's a relief."

"Although, you'll have to point me in the direction of that Janine woman."

"You dog." Sherlock teased as Florence chuckled.

▪︎□ ■ □▪︎ 

With an ambulance call and the photographer arrested, the wedding reception proceeded smoothly.

Sherlock preformed his composition of John and Mary's wedding waltz, the violin filled with emotion. The guests watched as John dipped Mary in his arms on the final note, kissing her before he pulled her back up right. They clapped at the affection before the music kicked on.

The party went til after sundown, everyone getting ready to dance in the now cleaned up hall, the tables pushed back against the back wall.

Florence caught himself sobering up against the only solid wall, away from the crowd of dancers. He had a glass of water in his hands, slowly sipping as the beginnings of a hangover rolled through him like a dump truck. 

"Why're you standing all the way over here?" Mrs. Hudson had found him.

"Hi, Mrs. Hudson." Florence pulled a smile to his face. "Aren't you supposed to be dancing?"

"I am!" She said, sashaying along with the music. 

He smiled at her cheeky behavior, "You are."

"Did you bring a date?" 

"I didn't."

"But you look so handsome," She tutted in displeasure. 

Florence took a sip of his water, mowing down the crowd with his eyes. 

"Enjoy yourself. Let loose!" Mrs. Hudson shouted, going back into the crowd. 

He nodded to her retreating form, chuckling that she's buzzed. 

He quickly went back to looking through the heads in the crowd, seeing many of a jumping figures. 

Florence tutted as he saw John, Mary, and Sherlock standing in the midst of the dancefloor. He guessed that they were allowed to do that, being the central three. 

Florence loomed over the glass of water in his hands, seeing it ripple with the bass of the booming music. A dance worthy song but he didn't feel like dancing. 

The temperature was getting to him, he could just tell. Florence set his water down on the closest surface and tugged off the heavy charcoal jacket, folding it over his arm. 

The fun yet distracting lights made the purple of his dress shirt illuminate, hurting his eyes even more. Florence needed a break from this. 

He quietly snuck out one of the doors, smiling at one of the security guards as he exited the building. He followed the sidewalk down to a bench just outside the premises, sitting down and breathing in the chilly, spring night.

He dug through his jacket and retrieved the almost empty canteen. He took his hair out of its tight restraint, letting his curls bounce freely around his head. He sighed as he unscrewed the top. 

"Still drinking?" The detective's brusing voice damning the quiet. 

Florence washed down the rest of the container's contents, putting it back in his jack pocket, staring out into the yard.

Sherlock sat next to him, wearing his signature woolen trenchcoat. 

"Your jacket's stupid," Florence lightly said.

Sherlock chuckled at the comment, "You should be wearing one."

Florence shook his head, pulling out the sunflower pin in his pocket, fiddling around with it. The night wind nipped at his warm ears.

"I like Mary. I really do. She's funny and smart and just so righteous. She's so good for him." Florence said, guilt riddling his voice. "But there's just something so backless about the feeling I get from her. John loves her, and I'm sure you accept her. I'm happy for them. For him, for her. They make a great couple. Really."

Sherlock listened to the hunter next to him, nodding along.

"She gives me nerves, as if I were back behind an automatic." Florence paused in his ramblings, clutching the pin in a fist as he turned to his neighbor. "I'm uneasy and drunk and so jealous of her that it's making me bitter."

Sherlock took Florence's closed fist into his hand, loosening his neighbor's grip for him. He took the pin, showing it to the other.

"I don't know exactly what kind of thing you had with John," Sherlock started. "But what I've learned is that he's moved on. He went ahead without us and is happy with Mary. Our feelings do not get to effect their marriage."

"We lost a friend today, Sherlock Holmes." Florence said, looking up to meet the detective's brown eyes in the night. "I think we have a right to be upset."

"We didn't lose anybody." Sherlock said, not even convincing himself. He was just repeating what others said.

Florence frowned, "Then why does it feel different?"

Sherlock left his words to linger, counting back on the amount of people who said marriage changes people. 

Sherlock wasn't truly content with this development, the idea of two people being locked together by an official document until the end of their lives hasn't ever sat right with him. Marriage was weird. But it was weird for his friend to be taken from him.

Yes, he left John but it was for something bigger than him. Bigger than them. He hoped that Florence would pop back in and hold John to the flat for a little longer, but he didn't. John grew from him, from them, and reached out to another. To Mary.

It was upsetting and, almost dare he say it, earth shattering. But what he thought didn't matter. Not now. He still had John as his friend, he still had him in his life. 

Florence did too.

Sherlock sighed as he recollected his thoughts, "I think we should go home."

Florence nodded, standing to his heavy feet. He put his jacket back on before looking to the detective. Sherlock joined him, letting the drunken man lean on him for support. It was a little jarring at first but he managed. They both did. They had to.

Sherlock hailed on a cabbie on one of the main streets, helping Florence into the vehicle. 

"221b Baker Street, thank you," Sherlock directed. 

"Do you mind if I roll down the window?" Florence asked the cabbie. 

"It's all yours," She said.

"Thanks." Florence said, leaning his head against the door, cracking the window so the wind would blow on his face. 

The car quickly filled with his smell, the Hawaiian Ginger contrasted with the cheap Rum. Sherlock was surprised by how pleasant it was. It was distracting and disorientating to have another man's musk basically shoved into his face.

The cabbie didn't say anything as she drove them quietly to their street. There was a late night talk show that played low on the radio. The mindless chatter was nice.

She stopped infront of Speedy's and Sherlock paid the fare, practically lugging Florence out of the taxi. He tried to stand on his own but his legs weren't working as well, which sent him into a panicky giggle fit. 

"You owe me two fares." Sherlock said, as he struggled with his keys to get into the flat. 

"Write it down." He said as Sherlock got the door open. 

"I'm busy getting us home at the moment." Sherlock said, bringing the both of them through the door. He closed it with a thunk of the knocker.

Florence made a face as he attempted to stand, which he successfully did. "I can get myself to my couch from here."

Sherlock let go of the man, seeing as he could stand. His brows furrowed as he smelt the man's musk on him. He just washed his coat too.

Sherlock watched Florence take a step, his ankle immediately rolling under him, but he quickly steadied himself on the railing. He bumbled down to his flat, using the walls and stair rails to make sure he didn't fall in his dizzying senses. Florence rested his forehead against his door as he fumbled with his own keys, having to do about six entire attempts before he put the key in the lock. 

Florence flung the door open and fell into his appartment, face down onto the entry rug. He heard a sigh behind him as he lifted himself up to his knees, throwing off his shoes into his livingroom.

"I'll help you." Sherlock said, hoisting the practically limp man up. 

"Thank you." Florence sluggishly hummed. 

Sherlock drug the heavy man to the couch, noticing how difficult it was for him to pick up the man. He plopped him on the couch the best he could, half of Florence still hanging off of it.

Florence landed on the tweed with a pleasant groan, immediately slugging off his jacket and loosening his tie while unbuttoning the cream vest.

"You need anything else?" The detective asked while straightening his clothes.

Florence motioned for Sherlock to lean in with his tattooed hand.

Sherlock leaned in, only to be pulled by his collar to receive a slight peck of a kiss on the side of his lips. His hand steadied himself on the couch's cushions.

"Thank you, Sherl." Florence mumbled with drooping eyes, letting him go. "Love you."

Sherlock pulled away from the drowsy man, the sandy curls on his head framing his peaceful face. He shook his head at his neighbor, leaving the aromatic flat, closing 221C's door for the night.

"Your welcome, Lorrie." He said out to the empty apartment building. "Sleep tight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just headcanons.
> 
> Florence is bisexual, male lean. He rarely goes for women, because they've got to be special to him or seem very special. 
> 
> Irene is still lesbian, but she does dominatrix as a job/paid hobby. She isn't emotionally attached, but Sherlock was the one case where she was. 
> 
> Sherlock, I still ignore those sex scenes in the show because sex scenes are everywhere because of these horny straight bitches on the BBC writing team.
> 
> John is a repressed bisexual. Is still VERY much into women but is internally repressing his attraction to men. I feel like Sherlock (all time "and they were roomates"), and Major Sholto (his military crush), are probable scenarios in which he IS attracted to them but really really cements it into his own head that they are friends because of his insecurities. 
> 
> Honestly Greg is wildcard and probably straight but flirts like there's no tomorrow if given the chance. 
> 
> Do NOT look me in the eyes and tell my that Mycroft hasn't sucked a dick here or there or had gotten his dick sucked by a man BECAUSE I WILL BELIEVE THAT IT IS SATIRE. lol yeah that's the truth.
> 
> Mary is major bisexual energy. Assassins are lesbian icons i do not care. Facts do not care about your feelings.
> 
> Mummy and Daddy Holmes i love together. Himbo dad, nerd mom, both going senile with age. Beautiful. I love it. Thats the best thing this show has done so far. I love it.
> 
> Anyways I've been having this one in my drafts since before sooooooo *le shrug*


End file.
